


A Game of Stars

by thewolfbit



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, House Stark, House Targaryen, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Slow Burn, The Dark Side of the Force, The Force Ships It, The Targaryen Empire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2018-10-16 14:15:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10572981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolfbit/pseuds/thewolfbit
Summary: Sansa Stark has the perfect life on Alderaan. Although she isn't Force sensitive, she has House Stark's ancient Force lineage that ensures her a match with Joffrey Baratheon. That is, until Ned Stark is outed as a rebel working against the Targaryen Empire.In exile, Sansa finds herself living on the frozen wasteland of Hoth, a planet devoid of life except for fearsome creatures like tauntauns and direwolves. But there's another secret Ned has been hiding from the Empire: the Stark children are, in fact, Force users.Jon Targaryen is the Mad Emperor’s grandson being groomed to take the Kyber Throne. An imperial general, he uses the Force to command Rhaegal, one of three legendary dragon-class starships. Jon, a bastard, was never meant to rule until his siblings were killed by rebels.When the Mad Emperor hears that the Starks are Force-sensitive, he discovers the hidden rebel base on Hoth. He sends Jon there with one order: Burn them all. But bring the Stark children to Coruscant.It’s time for the two most powerful Force bloodlines in the galaxy to merge.Also onTumblr(+graphic!)





	1. Echo Base

“You want to get me lemon cakes.”

Arya laughed so loud that Nymeria lifted her great, shaggy head and stared at the girl. “You’ll have to do better than that,” Arya said.

Sansa clenched her jaw, her blue eyes meeting Arya’s gray. “You… want… to get me… lemon cakes,” she repeated. For a moment, Arya’s expression slipped away. A tiny droplet of sweat slipped down Sansa’s forehead, giving her a chill. She shuddered, and the life came back to Arya’s eyes.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” Arya said, tossing her head. “Besides, there _aren’t_ lemon cakes here. Nobody has time to make fancy food like that. And where would the lemons come from, anyway?”

Sansa ignored Arya’s words as she stared deep into her eyes. She could do this. She knew she could. According to songs and stories, this only worked on the weak-minded, but she’d been able to do it with Robb, Bran, Rickon, and even her own mother. Arya had a powerful mind, but it couldn’t be stronger than the mind of _Catelyn Tully_ , could it?

Maybe it could. After all, as fearsome as their mother was, she wasn’t Force-sensitive. That had skipped Catelyn’s generation, making her—in the eyes of the Empire—valuable for breeding, but not much else. With fewer and fewer Force users being born, arranged marriages were even more popular than they’d been a few generations ago.

Just then, as she stared into her sister’s eyes, Sansa felt it—her connection to the Force, deep down like it had always been there, waiting, maybe asleep. She felt it rush through her, dulling her sensation to the cold, calming her nerves, even relaxing her muscles. She felt… well, warm. Impossibly warm, for Echo Base. “You want to get me lemon cakes,” she said slowly, every word humming with power.

Arya’s eyes dulled and her head bobbed. “I want to get you lemon cakes,” she repeated, jumping to her feet. Nymeria yelped and rose beside Arya, her tail low.

Sansa laughed gleefully, clapping her hands together. Next to her, Lady’s ears flattened in a kind of direwolf smile. “Arya, wait!” Sansa called just before her sister could run out of their quarters with Nymeria at her heels. “I didn’t mean it.”

Arya turned back to her, scratching at her scalp as if Sansa’s mind trick had made the contents of her head itch. Her eyes were wide as she stared at her sister. “Seven hells, Sansa, that was…” She scrunched up her face before she could slip up and compliment her sister. “So stupid. I’d rather swing a blade any day.” She pulled out her lightsaber from her belt and began to slash the hilt around without activating it.

Sansa couldn’t hide the smile on her face. Robb and Arya might have her lightsaber skills, Bran his visions of the future, and Rickon his powerful—if unreliable—telekinesis, but none of the Stark children could manipulate others’ thoughts as well as Sansa. Being able to use the Force was one of the only good things about being stranded on the frozen, Outer Rim wasteland that was Hoth. On Alderaan, the Stark children were forbidden to do anything with their gifts, or even speak of them. Their father had insisted on it, and over the years he had paid a fortune to hide their Force sensitivity from the Empire. He’d told them once that he didn’t want his children to be used as weapons. Like he had been.

Like he still was, now, in Coruscant.

As if sensing her anger, Lady nudged Sansa’s hand. Sansa petted the soft fur behind Lady’s ears.

Of course, Lady was the _best_ thing about Hoth. When the Starks were exiled from Alderaan six months ago, Sansa was terrified of all the new creatures she’d face. Sure enough, as soon as they arrived—forced to land far from Echo Base in case they were being followed—they were attacked by a huge, furry wampa after their transport landed too close to the body of the massive creature it was feasting on. A pack of direwolves, creatures hunted to extinction in the Core Worlds, had surrounded the wampa, snarling and biting until they’d chased it away. The direwolves wouldn’t leave the Starks alone after that, even following them into Echo Base and living among them like pet dogs. They didn’t know then that the direwolves were just pups, probably orphaned that very day from their mother, the wampa’s victim. Now, the direwolves were as big as horses and twice as fast.

As Robb pointed out, House Stark’s sigil had always been the direwolf. Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Summer, and Shaggydog must have known this—perhaps through a kind of Force of their own—and claimed the children as part of their pack.

“When are you going to try a mind probe?” Arya asked, turning the lightsaber hilt over in her hands.

Sansa looked down at Lady. “Never.”

When she first heard about mind probes, all she wanted was to try them. If only Father would let her use the Force. She could read the mind of Joffrey to see if he really did love her, or find out exactly what made Arya do the things she did. But when she arrived on Hoth and learned that a mind probe could be turned around on her, she was terrified to try it. She didn’t want anyone seeing what was inside her head, and maybe that meant she wasn’t supposed to go snooping in others’ heads, either. After all, she might not like what she found. People kept secrets for a reason.

Like her father.

It wasn’t until House Stark was being stripped of its lands and banished from the Core Worlds that Sansa learned Ned Stark had been part of the rebellion. Not only that—he’d been one of the leaders, the Rebel Kings, along with Robert Baratheon.

He was dead now. But Sansa remembered him well. He was to be her father-in-law, after all. Because Ned Stark hid the Stark children’s Force sensitivity, Sansa was, like her mother, only good for breeding. That was enough to merit a betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon.

Then Joffrey’s father Robert joined the rebellion by killing Elia Martell, Rhaegar Targaryen’s wife and the next Empress.

That was the beginning of Sansa’s world turning upside down. At first, she’d worried that this meant Joffrey was no longer good enough for her. His father was a traitor.

But Joff’s mother Cersei left Robert, taking their three children with her to Coruscant and pledging their loyalty to the Empire. _As Lannisters do_ , Sansa remembered Catelyn saying to Ned, her voice bitter and quiet.

After Robert Baratheon was executed, Cersei married the widowed Rhaegar. Joffrey—Prince Joffrey—was even more powerful than ever, heir to the Kyber Throne after the Targaryens by blood: Emperor Aerys, Prince Rhaegar, Princess Rhaenys, and the young Princes Aegon and Jon.

Sansa had secretly been thrilled. Until she learned that her father was part of Robert’s rebellion. Sansa’s fear that Joffrey was not good enough for her was supplanted by the clear fact that she was no longer good enough for him. Or the Core Worlds. Her supposedly dormant Force sensitivity wasn’t enough to save her. She was torn away from everything—her father, her fiancé, her home.

“You’re crazy!” Arya said, startling Sansa from her thoughts of Joffrey and the rebellion.

She’d lost almost everything—but not Arya, the annoying little sister that she’d always _wanted_ to escape from. No, Arya was here, and she even had to share quarters with her… but Sansa had to admit she didn’t mind it as much as she thought she would. They still bickered like they had on Alderaan, of course, but the funny thing about losing almost everything was that made tolerating Arya easier. Even when she called Sansa names.

“You’re never going to try a mind probe?” Arya asked. “If I had the nerdy mental focus that you and Bran have, I’d be mind probing everyone.”

_Then thank the gods you don’t_ , Sansa thought. Lady let out a warm huff of air through her nose, like she was laughing.

“Where _is_ Bran?” Sansa asked, rising from her small cot in the dim, windowless room the sisters shared. Most of the quarters here were stacked high with bunks, but the rebels had given smaller rooms to the high-born people there. She felt guilty, sometimes, but also thankful that she didn’t have to share a large, loud room with a dozen rough rebel women. Sansa stretched, feeling herself come fully back into her body and out of her head, even as something nagged the back of her mind, like she was forgetting something she was desperately supposed to remember. “I haven’t seen him, or Robb or Rickon, all day.”

There was a pounding on the door.

Sansa jumped, startled, and Arya whirled toward the door, raising the hilt of her lightsaber like she was cutting down an enemy.

“Arya, don’t be stupid,” Sansa said, but her heart was beating fiercely. She had a strange sense that this visitor had something to do with the odd, persistent feeling she couldn’t shake.

“ _You_ don’t be stupid!” Arya frowned and hit the door’s open button. It slid open as slowly as ever. Sansa laid one hand on Lady’s side, trying to be patient even though all her nerves felt on edge. When the door opened, Bran stood there with Summer, trying to catch his breath. His eyes were wild and darting, like some kind of prey caught by Joffrey’s horrible hunting parties. Sansa’s stomach turned.

“They’re coming,” Bran said.

Sansa and Arya looked at each other. Neither needed to ask what he meant. The room shuddered, growing larger and then smaller, like the last time Sansa had had too much wine. She shut her eyes tightly, trying to think. “Mother, and Robb,” she said. They would know what to do.

“Robb and Rickon aren’t in our quarters,” Bran said.

They weren’t safe. They needed to run. Again. Sansa’s eyes lit on the chest with her possessions—but Arya tugged at her sleeve. “Come _on_. You’re already wearing your coat.” They all were, always, because Echo Base was freezing. “All you need is your lightsaber.”

“Let me get it, then,” Sansa said, her voice pitching as she opened the chest of her belongings. Her heart squeezed as she saw them all, and she couldn’t help but slip her small keepsake pouch into her sleeve as she grabbed her lightsaber hilt. Arya’s quick eyes probably noticed, but she didn’t say a word as Sansa stood up again. “I’m ready.” She wasn’t.

Sansa followed her siblings and their direwolves into the hall, slipping the pouch into the pocket of her huge coat. The quarters that Catelyn shared with General Brienne—the powerful Force user, almost like an old Jedi knight, who had been training them—was empty. They ran down the long barracks hallway, passing the always-shut doors of the command center, until they reached the mess hall.

Rebels sat at the tables, eating and laughing in their big fur coats. A group of young boys, no older than Bran, sat sprawled at one table, playing cards. Just seeing them made Sansa feel ill. They were in danger because of the Starks.

“There they are,” Arya said, pointing across the room at the table where Catelyn, Robb, and Rickon were sharing a tray of some Outer Rim food that was surely more like rubber. As they hurried through the busy mess hall, rebels grinned and ducked out of their way, staring up at the direwolves in awe. Some of them recoiled, trying to get as far from the beasts as possible. Usually, Sansa would have taken it personally—Lady was so gentle, after all—but right now she didn’t care.

Arya got to them first. “The Empire,” she gasped. “Bran saw it.”

Catelyn’s weary smile faded away. “No,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. Catelyn looked to the sky, as if she could look straight through Echo Base to glimpse at the sky. “How could they find this place?”

Robb stood up, whistling for Grey Wind to come to his side. “We need to get out before it happens,” he said. 

Cat stared at him. “Abandon the others? General Brienne? King Renly? Everyone else?”

“We can’t!” Arya snapped, and Robb shushed her.

“We promised we’d save Father. That’s why we’re here. That’s what we’ve been working for. How can we do that if we don’t survive?” He leaned forward, taking Catelyn’s gloved hands in his. “He needs us, Mother. More than any of these rebels do.”

Catelyn took a deep breath and looked at the faces of her children. “Fine,” she said, looking down at the ground. “But we’re not leaving without telling Lord Renly.”

“I’ll tell him myself. He should know of the threat.” Robb nodded, turning to Sansa. She felt herself paling. Why was he looking at her like she was some kind of leader? “Get Mother and the others to the hangar bay. Find rations and a transport just for us.”

“Just for us?” Sansa repeated. It would be safer to be in a big transport with the other rebels and a true pilot, wouldn’t it?

“A big transport is an easier target,” Robb said. “Set the coordinates for Tatooine. I’ll meet you all in Hangar 7.”

 

* * *

 

By the time they arrived in Hangar 7, it was already in chaos thanks to the warning sirens flooding Echo Base. King Renly’s voice thundered over the speakers. The base was to be evacuated. The shields were being raised to maximum power. When Renly announced that the tauntauns that rebels used were to be released outside the base, Sansa clung to Lady’s side, praying to all the gods that he wouldn’t say the same thing about direwolves.

In the crowds, Sansa could barely see straight. Following Arya’s lead, she hoisted herself onto Lady’s back, pulling her scruff as gently as possible. She’d learned to ride horses and other equine beasts on Alderaan, but only side saddle. Lady had no saddle at all, but Sansa didn’t wear skirts anymore, anyway. The four direwolves leapt through the ship deck, Nymeria and Arya leading the way, and Catelyn holding Rickon close on Shaggydog’s back. Rebel pilots were already leaping into the cockpits of their fighters, droids at the ready. 

If the Starks wanted to escape before things turned ugly, they needed to go _now_.

Finally, Arya spotted a small, empty transport. She leapt off Nymeria and began to prepare it for launch. Robb had seemed to put Sansa in charge, but Arya was quicker at these kinds of things anyway, wasn’t she? Sansa felt her heart racing faster and faster; a ticking clock running out of time. Lady bent her legs and Sansa slid off, keeping her hand on Lady’s side. “What about the direwolves?” she asked Arya.

Arya stopped and shook her head without facing Sansa. “There isn’t room for them all in here,” she said, and when she turned around, her face was red. Sansa had seen that look a hundred times. Her sister was trying to fight back angry tears.

“Shaggydog can’t come?” Rickon gasped from behind Sansa. She turned around and saw him, holding Catelyn’s hand, his features scrunched as if he was ready to cry, too. Bran stood beside them, his face ashen.

“It’s not fair!” Arya’s voice echoed around them. “We can’t just leave them.” 

“We _can’t_ ,” Bran agreed.

“We’ll find something bigger,” Sansa said, her voice more demanding. 

Catelyn pressed her hand on Sansa’s shoulder, but Sansa wouldn’t look in her mother’s eyes. “They’re creatures of Hoth, Sansa,” Catelyn said. “They won’t survive the deserts of Tatooine.” 

“No,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “We’ll go somewhere else, then.” Her head felt dizzy, like she was going to be sick. Her life had been torn apart. She’d lost her friends, title, betrothed—even her home and her father. But now that she had Lady, she wasn’t losing her. Ever. 

Catelyn closed her eyes. “There isn’t time. What would your father say?” 

Sansa wanted to say that her father would tell them to bring the wolves. But she didn’t know what he would say. Not anymore. He’d lied about the rebellion. Maybe she didn’t really know him at all.

“Father would say they were the sigil of his house, and proven friends to us.” It was Robb, suddenly behind them, sliding off of Grey Wind’s back. “The more friends and weapons we have, the more likely we are to survive. And the direwolves are both friends _and_ weapons.”

Sansa nodded, relieved, but Catelyn didn’t look convinced as she peered into the small transport. There wasn’t room, really, but they’d fit. Somehow. They had to.

“There’s plenty of room,” Robb said, exchanging a glance with Arya.

“There isn’t time, like you said, Mother,” Arya said, punching the command screen. The transport door slid open. “Let’s go instead of arguing.”

Catelyn took a deep breath, then turned to Robb. “You spoke to King Renly?”

“I did. General Brienne, too. She said she needed to stay by her king’s side until the base was evacuated, but that they would find us on Tatooine.”

Catelyn nodded slowly.

“Mother, you first,” Robb said, ushering them into the transport. “Now, Rickon,” he said, helping his younger brother inside. Catelyn brought Rickon into her arms and he hid his crying face on her shoulder. Shaggydog sniffed around the transport as Catelyn shooed him into the small cargo hold behind the even smaller cockpit. Catelyn strapped them both into the center seat. “Bran,” Robb said, crouching down to face him. “Do you have your lightsaber?”

Bran nodded silently.

“Good.” Robb helped Bran inside and he fastened himself into his seat, calling Summer to his side. Two seats left. That meant Sansa and Arya would probably have to share, even though it should really be Arya and Bran. Sansa was always getting stuck with Arya. And it was Arya’s turn next, because she was the next-youngest after Bran. Sansa waited for her sister, impatient. She could barely wait to get in and leave Hoth, curled up with Lady on their way to somewhere safe. 

At least, she hoped it was safe. She didn’t know much about Tatooine except that it was far, far away. Just like Hoth had been.

No, she thought, pressing her lips together. It would be safe. It _had_ to be.

“Arya,” Robb said, nodding at his youngest sister. She nodded back, and then—then she was pressing the button to seal the transport. The door slid shut in an instant.

Catelyn’s face fell, realizing all too quickly what was happening. Sansa dug her fingers into Lady’s side, unable to speak.

“No,” Catelyn cried, her voice muffled behind the glass of the door and the divider. She reached to unhook herself from the seat, but Robb shook his head.

“I’ve locked it from the outside until after landing,” he said as his mother’s face twisted in horror. “You’re on auto pilot to Tatooine. Keep the boys safe, Mother.”

“No,” she repeated.

Sansa was shaking her head, but she couldn’t move. All she could do was stare at her mother’s eyes, the same Tully blue as hers.

As the transport began to hum to life, Arya placed her palm on the glass, but Sansa could see that her other hand was shaking, curled into a fist. “We’ll find you.”

And just like that, the transport began to rise. Anya’s hand slipped from the glass. Sansa could see their mother’s auburn hair for an instant longer. Sansa blinked and the transport was gone. They were gone.

Sansa leaned against Lady. Her knees were so weak that she thought she would have fallen otherwise. “Why?” she asked, her voice weak. Lady whined. 

Arya spun around, her face hot and red. “We can’t just abandon the people that took us in and kept us alive. We have to fight with them!” 

Robb reached out to Sansa, but she backed away, farther into Lady’s warm ribcage. “Sansa, we’re the only Force users here, besides General Brienne,” Robb said. “We need to help fight. We can buy time for the others to escape.”

“No,” she protested, shaking her head. “We’re not strong enough! We don’t… we’ve only been training for a half a year.” Arya’s lip curled. Sansa knew that meant she was completely and utterly disgusted by her, but she didn’t care. She wanted her mother and her little brothers. She wanted Tatooine, however far and hot it was, because at least it was safer than here. She wanted home and her father again. “Let’s go, Robb, Arya, we can still make it,” she pleaded, grabbing Robb’s sleeve and trying to pull him away. There were transports all around them. The lines were long, but they were the Starks—the rebels would let them move to the front. The rebels would take them to Tatooine, right? Even just to the nearest planet, anything—anything was better than this.

“Sansa.” Robb took her shoulders in his hands, holding her firm. Lady let out a small growl, and Sansa flinched, embarrassed at herself and embarrassed at Lady, who was always so good. Grey Wind flicked his tail and stepped toward Lady. Brother against sister. Everything was falling apart. “Sansa,” Robb continued. “We have to help.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Sansa protested. She was hopeless with a lightsaber; even Bran was better than her and he was only 14. She’d been practicing telekinesis on her needlework, but her stitches always came out crooked. She could influence others’ thoughts, it was true, but not more than one at a time. How could that help in battle? “I’m too weak, Robb,” she whispered.

“You’re more powerful than you know.” He leaned back and smiled up at Lady. “And she won’t let you get hurt, will she?”

“You can either fight with us or sit here like a _proper_ lady and die,” Arya snapped, pulling herself up onto Nymeria’s back. “But I’m not waiting for you to cry over it first.”

It stung. Sansa was tired of feeling useless. On Alderaan, everyone had always marveled about how _accomplished_ she was. But ever since she’d been forced into the life of a rebel, she found she wasn’t much good at anything useful except for patching up torn uniforms or comforting the children. Now, finding out that Robb and Arya had planned this all behind her back stung even more. They didn’t trust her to be strong enough to know about the plan.

She _wasn’t_ strong enough. Just thinking about her mother made her feel weak. In a few seconds, she’d lost even more of her family.

But what was it that her father always said? Something about their house sigil. Something about direwolves.

As if Arya was reading her mind, she repeated it now, her voice gentler than before. “When the snow blows and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies—”

“But the pack survives,” Sansa finished, her voice more of a sigh than anything else.

On Alderaan, she was a girl training to be a lady. The future Lady Baratheon. But on Hoth, she was nothing more than a rebel.

No, that wasn’t true. She was a rebel who could use the Force.

Now it was Lady’s turn to read her mind. She lowered herself and Sansa climbed atop her back. If she was going to fight, it was better to have a head start. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice a mix of mourning and terror and anticipation, and maybe just a hint of resolve.

But it was too late for a head start. As soon as Robb leapt onto Grey Wind, Echo Base’s warning alarm changed, chiming at a new frequency. A voice, not Renly’s this time, came over the loudspeaker: _Imperial forces within atmosphere. Identified as Stormtrooper elite unit Blizzard Force._  

Stormtroopers. So the Empire meant to launch an attack over land. “Blizzard Force,” Robb repeated, exchanging a glance with Arya. When did they start keeping secrets from her? Before she could think too much about it, Nymeria and Grey Wind began to run through Hangar 7, and Sansa nudged Lady to follow, dread filling her belly. All she could think was that the snow was certainly blowing, and if she didn’t stay with her pack, she would not survive.


	2. The Battle of Hoth

The cold of Hoth’s atmosphere stung Sansa’s cheeks before Lady set one paw outside Echo Base. The Starks had all grown up in the snow—Winterfell was in the snowy, mountainous northern region of Alderaan, after all—but Hoth was nothing like Winterfell. Wind blistered her cheeks and she had to grip her furred hood in place to keep it from tearing away. Her eyelashes crusted with snowflakes and she squinted, turning Lady away from the wind. 

A flash of gray. Nymeria was suddenly next to her, steam rising from her mouth. “Here,” Arya said, pressing a pair of goggles into Sansa’s gloved hand.

When she’d first arrived on Hoth, Sansa had wrinkled her nose at the goggles, swearing she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing something so hideous. But now, she pulled them over her head eagerly. 

They rode through the storm, climbing atop the nearest peak, the direwolves effortlessly scaling the hundreds of feet of treacherous cliffs. Grey Wind reached the top first. Robb sat astride his wolf, his eyes on the sky and a hand on the hilt of his lightsaber, as if any second he’d have to fight. Nymeria sidled up to him, and Sansa nudged Lady to join them, three direwolves standing strong against the cold.

Imperial star destroyers were dipping into the atmosphere. “Thanks to Bran’s warning, we were able to raise the shields to maximum power,” said Robb. “They tried to ambush us, but now we have the upper hand.”

“It doesn’t feel like it!” Sansa said. It felt like she was going to freeze, and die, and have the rest of her family taken away from her.

“With our shields up, they can’t attack from the air,” Robb explained.

“But won’t they be prepared for a land assault anyway?”

The hint of a smile grew on Arya’s face. “But not _just_ a land assault. And not against wolves.” 

“What do the wolves matter against AT-AT walkers?” Sansa asked, irritated. She felt like she was five steps behind her siblings. She wished now she’d paid more attention to the rebels when they discussed battle strategy or Imperial weaponry, but it was just so _boring_ at the time.

But neither of them responded. They were staring up.

“Look,” Robb said, his voice soft as snow.

Above them, almost breaking the stormy sky in two, was a long, angled ship bigger than any other Sansa had ever seen. It had a thin, snakelike body and two wings that fanned out into sharp points. She could see the glint of green on the ship even from here, even with the storm. She breathed in too sharply and her lungs filled with aching cold. 

She’d seen that ship before. It had come to Winterfell, and then it had left with her father.

“ _Rhaegal_.” Robb said the word like a prayer, or maybe a curse.

Nothing struck fear into the hearts of rebels—or anyone, really—like the sight of a dragon-class starship. There were only three of the legendary vessels in the entire galaxy, greater even than the Imperial star destroyers. _Rhaegal_ was one. They were more than just starships: they were supposedly _living_ things, artificial intelligence beyond that of the most advanced droid, each commanded by one pilot alone through sheer command of the Force.

“They’re not here for the rebels,” Arya said, her eyes wide behind her goggles. “They came for us!”

As _Rhaegal_ neared the ground just above Echo Base, its body changed— _bent_ , really—the head of the ship dipping down and then raising slightly as it coasted along the ground. No, Sansa decided, shivering, it was no ordinary starship. “We should have gone,” Sansa couldn’t help but say. “I _knew_ it, I tried to tell you—”

“Shut up!” Arya snapped.

Scowling, Sansa rounded on her sister, but Arya was looking at Robb. From this angle, Sansa could see the miniature reflection of the starship in Robb’s goggle lens.

“Who would win in a fight, a dragon or a wolf?” Robb asked.

Sansa had the vague feeling that she would have rolled her eyes at Robb in any other situation. But right now, she was shaking from fear and the cold, and her belly was a storm of nerves. “The dragon, of course!”

He turned on her, eyes flashing. “But if you cut off the dragon’s wings?” he asked, his voice firm. “We still have the advantage over land.”

“I hope you’re right.” Sansa glanced down at Lady.

“We’ll stay here,” Robb said. “We’ll wait for the land assault to begin, and then we’ll ride into battle. If we are separated, don’t wait around until we’re all back together. Get in a transport and go to Harrenhal in the Northern Dune Sea of Tatooine.”

“Why there, anyway?” Sansa asked.

Arya groaned loudly, but Robb just shot her a look. “Don’t you remember? That’s where Mother’s old friend Lord Baelish lives. He promised to help us however he could.”

Lord Baelish. Like her father, another Imperial lord who was a secret rebel. Sansa had a vague memory of their mother receiving a message from Lord Baelish almost as soon as they were on Hoth, pledging his service to them. She’d never met him, but she remembered the look on her mother’s face when she’d received the message.

She could worry about that later. Something was wrong. Sansa felt it, and from the uneasy look in her siblings’ eyes, they felt it, too. _Rhaegal_ was snaking closer and closer to Echo Base.

“Robb,” Sansa said, “the shield _can_ withstand the aerial attack, right?”

Her brother stared on without a word. Sansa hated when Robb was like this, so noble and quiet. She admired him for it, of course—it reminded her of their father—but she would rather he explain things to her so she knew what to expect. 

“It’s at maximum strength,” Arya said after a moment, but she didn’t sound too sure.

After all, it _was_ a dragon-class starship.

And just then—a flash of light. The roar of a flame igniting. A concentrated beam of vermilion fire shot from _Rhaegal_ straight at the ground, straight at Echo Base. Sansa covered her mouth with one hand. 

The shield held.

Another fiery barrage. Then another.

And then—something burst.

“Seven hells,” Arya yelped.

Faster than any ship ought to move, _Rhaegal_ darted away from the explosion of light and flame. The other Imperial ships drew closer, peppering the sky with blasts of their own. _Rhaegal_ soared between their shots, raining fire down on Echo Base.

The Starks were so far away, but heat—lovely, awful heat—rushed over them.

When the smoke cleared, Lady whimpered. Echo Base had been blasted open, its upper levels burned away, a smoldering husk. The rebels came into life, the final transports fleeing the base and X-wings soaring into the sky.

“How did they even know it was there?” Sansa asked, but her words were torn away by the wind.

The storm was too thick to see the sun. Nothing should have cast a shadow, but _Rhaegal_ did. The X-wings fired at it, over and over, but however large it was, it seemed to move through them. Imperial TIE fighters appeared in the sky like a swarm of wasps, scattering the rebel fighters away from _Rhaegal_ and the other Imperial starships.

And all Sansa could do was watch in horror as _Rhaegal_ landed beside the blown-apart Echo Base. The starships docked just beside it, Stormtroopers leaping from the doors even before the ships made landing.

“I have a bad feeling about this.” 

Sansa wasn’t sure if she’d said it out loud, but she realized she had when Arya nearly shouted, “It’s not just a bad _feeling_! Everything about this is bad! Are you _stupid_?”

AT-ATs groaned out of the starships, marching toward Echo Base. The rebels in TIE fighters swooped at the huge beast-like weapons, trying to take them down, but they were still on the run from the X-wings. Ground rebel troops ducked in trenches, firing on Stormtroopers and droids.

But for every Stormtrooper taken down, there were three more. And they were advancing on the rebels fast. Some rebels shouted, running out of the trenches and into the thick line of white soldiers, and Sansa shut her eyes tight. This couldn’t be happening. The rebels _had_ to win. Arya let out a shuddering breath next to her and Sansa opened her eyes.

Everywhere she looked, she saw fallen rebels. She was glad that they wore such thick coats or she might have recognized some of them, even from this far away.

“We need to help them fight those bucketheads!” Arya said.

“You’re right,” Robb said, shaking his head as if startled out of a stupor. “The air attack is over.” He looked at his sisters. “Remember, the wolves are deadly against droids and Stormtroopers, but do _not_ take them into a battle of blades. They’ll only get hurt, and we were taught to fight on our own two feet.”

“I would never,” Arya agreed, hugging Nymeria’s neck.

“Do your best, but the most important thing is to avoid capture—do you hear me? Renly and Brienne swore to fetch us in the king’s gold _Fury_ transport from the battlefield once the fighting is over, or once they’ve done all they can. If _Fury_ has come and gone, find another transport.” 

Sansa was starting to shake. “But what if—” 

“There’s no time for this!” Arya snapped, gesturing at the battle below. “Let’s go!”

And, just like that, Grey Wind and Nymeria took off with their riders, racing down the side of the mountain without looking back.

Gods, they were so _brave_ , Robb and Arya. How could they run headfirst into battle like that, not knowing if they’d be hurt or killed? Or taken, like Father, to be used for their gift with the Force? Sansa could feel Lady’s muscles ready, but she held her back. “Lady, I’m afraid,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “I wish I wasn’t, but I am. I’m not like them. I wasted all my time on silly, summery things, and now winter has come and I’m just… _useless_!”

Lady turned her head slightly, as if acknowledging her words, but Sansa’s eyes were on her siblings. Never once had they looked back for her. They didn’t doubt she was there, racing alongside them to fight.

Or maybe they did doubt her. Maybe they knew she wasn’t there, and didn’t need her anyway.

The doors of _Rhaegal_ opened and Sansa gripped Lady’s neck tighter. She couldn’t look at Jaime Lannister, the man who’d come to take her father away from Winterfell in the dragon-class starship. She hoped Robb and Arya would kill him instantly.

More Stormtroopers shuffled out of the ship, guns at the ready, shooting down any surviving rebels in sight. Some rebels were still occupying the trod-over trenches, faking death for each Stormtrooper march and shooting at the next. But Sansa wasn’t watching them. She was waiting to see who was coming after the foot soldiers.

A strange, purple light glowed against the falling snow. Sansa’s eyes widened.

Purple. That wasn’t Jaime Lannister. 

It was Joffrey.

He wore a dark red suit of armor and helmet, but even without seeing his golden hair or handsome face, Sansa knew him by his tall stature and the lightsaber he’d called Widow’s Wail. There he was, her once-betrothed. One of the rebels in the trenches shot for his head, and he spun the saber so quickly around that the shot ricocheted off. She shuddered. Once, in what seemed like a different life, Joffrey had loved to show off his weapons to her. Lady let out a soft growl.

She heard a yell from the Stormtroopers as they noticed Grey Wind and Nymeria closing in on them. Sansa sat up, nudging Lady closer to the edge of the cliff, saying a silent prayer to the Seven, and the Old Gods, and the Force, whatever god that was, that her siblings would be safe. “Even if I don’t have the courage or strength to join them,” she whispered.

As gunfire began to rain on them, two lightsabers flared to life, deflecting shots left and right. Arya’s saber was a blur of green light casting a halo over her and Nymeria, while Robb’s blue blade was held high above him, ready to strike. 

The Imperial forces only had a few chances to fire before the wolves were upon them, clawing and snapping, tearing apart droids and Stormtroopers alike and tossing pieces of them around like toys. Arya and Robb sliced the air with blue and green, defending as their wolves pushed through the fray. “Yes, go,” Sansa whispered, but her eyes kept flicking back to Joffrey.

She’d thought him too young, too inexperienced to lead an elite Stormtrooper unit like this, but she supposed that being a new prince through his mother’s remarriage had its perks. Still, he just watched as the wolves decimated his army, saving his lightsaber only to defend himself.

And then, when the wolves turned back around to kill the remaining Stormtroopers, Joffrey stepped forward.

Robb and Arya slid off their direwolves and Sansa’s heart leapt into her throat. Now it would be a battle of blades, as Robb had said. He and Arya both said something to their wolves and they vanished, running toward Echo Base. What had they told them? To find Brienne and Renly? Maybe she should run, too. Maybe she and Lady could catch up with Grey Wind and Nymeria and she would be safe.

“After all, they can beat Joff, right, Lady?” Sansa asked. “Two against one. They don’t need us.”

But that was when she saw another figure emerge from the door of _Rhaegal_.

Another man. His hair was black, his cloak black, his armor black. He stood silhouetted in the door, and then, suddenly, a red lightsaber flashed beside him. In all black, and glowing with red, Sansa knew—this was the prince. Not Joffrey, but the real one.

Jon Targaryen.

And she no longer had any hope for Robb or Arya.

Other than Jaime Lannister, Prince Jon Targaryen was known to be one of the best swordsmen in the galaxy. Unlike Rhaegar Targaryen, whose Force skills were rumored to be average, and the late Prince Aegon, who exhibited no Force sensitivity, Jon was legendary for his strength. 

Joffrey was one thing. Together, Robb and Arya would have certainly won. But Joffrey and _Jon Targaryen_ —there was no chance.

Lady stirred once again, trampling her front paws as if she wanted to join her own siblings. But Sansa was frozen. She couldn’t do a thing.

Joffrey moved against Arya, and Robb stepped toward Jon.

She had to do something, but what? “If I go there,” she said, very slowly and quietly, and Lady flicked an ear in response, “maybe I can distract them long enough. And maybe… maybe Joff wouldn’t fight if he saw me.” As soon as she said it, she realized how stupid it was. Joffrey? The boy had forced her to watch as he tested how close he could get the edge of his blade to little Tommen’s arm before it started to burn.

Her stomach roiled. No, she couldn’t go down there. It wasn’t safe.

And then it happened. 

Joffrey and Arya’s blades locked. And Joffrey held up one hand, shoving Arya back with the Force. She fell hard onto her back, Joffrey towering over her with his lightsaber poised to strike.

“No,” Sansa said, and the word filled her with a feeling so simple and raw it was impossible to question. She had to protect her little sister. She had to do something. Before she could say anything, Lady was racing down the edge of the mountain, running faster than Sansa thought possible.

Sansa’s furred hood flew back, but she didn’t reach up to hold it in place. Her auburn braids flew out around her head and the wind stung her ears, but she needed to keep one hand on Lady’s neck and the other on the hilt of her lightsaber.

She didn’t realize how short the distance was until she was upon them. Her sick stomach felt more like rock now as she and Lady thundered toward the ship. Arya had regained her footing and rounded on both Joffrey and Jon, her eyes murderous as she looked between them. Robb was disarmed, kneeling on the ground, his chest heaving and a shallow slice wound steaming across his cheek. In his left hand, Jon Targaryen now held Robb’s lightsaber.

That was the weapon that Ned once owned. Fury filled Sansa, and the hum of a lightsaber rang out through the storm and the battle. It took Sansa a moment to realize it was hers, burning bright in her hand.

“Joffrey, stop!” she yelled.

He turned around just long enough for Arya to leap closer and slash him in the side. He cried out and whirled on her, carving at the air and pushing her down to the ground. She kicked at him and he toppled over, cursing as he landed in the snow. Arya scrambled up, pointing the end of her saber a mere two inches from Joffrey’s nose.

Sansa slid off Lady and stepped forward, her blade casting the snowy ground blue. Her hands were shaking, but this time, she thought it was from anger.

“Laughable.” The deep voice sent chills through her. Sansa’s focus snapped to Jon Targaryen, but he was looking at Joffrey, held at the end of Arya’s blade. “If you’re done making a fool of yourself—”

Before Sansa realized what was happening, Jon threw Robb’s lightsaber in the air and beckoned with his hand, tugging at Arya’s blade with the Force. It whizzed into his hand just as Robb’s saber landed, and he caught the two hilts in his hand. Arya leapt for him, but stopped as soon as he nudged his own red blade at her. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.” 

“Let them go,” Sansa said. She may not be able to fight, but she could hold her head high and demand like the lady she was. Perhaps that would get her through this. 

Jon’s eyes finally fell upon her, and he looked at her from braids to boots. His eyes felt too searching, though he was probably just assessing her combat potential. And yet his eyes were somehow gentler than they were when they looked at Joffrey. “You must be Lady Sansa Stark,” he said, his eyes lingering longer than Sansa liked. She would have blushed with humiliation and rage if her cheeks weren’t already chapped from the cold. 

There was almost something… _familiar_ in his eyes, like he knew her. But she’d never met him before. She was sure of it. The Baratheons and Lannisters had visited Winterfell, but the Targaryens weren’t the sort to make social calls. And no matter how much Sansa had always begged to go to Coruscant, Ned never let the children go.

Jon finally tore his eyes away, back at his stepbrother, who was dusting off his armor. “Joffrey, you were betrothed to Lady Sansa; you should know her better than most. Are her skills with a blade any better than her siblings’?”

Sansa couldn’t look at Arya in case her younger sister started laughing hysterically.

As he picked up Widow’s Wail, Joffrey laughed, a dark, cruel laugh that shouldn’t have made Sansa hurt anymore. “She’d never even held a lightsaber back when I knew her. Except for mine, I made her hold one for the first time,” he added, his voice making it sound like a raunchy joke. Nobody else laughed, and Robb spat into the snow. 

“Lady Sansa, we are not here to harm you,” Jon said, then looked at Arya and Robb, huddled on the ground. “ _Any_ of you, as I tried to explain before you started attacking us. We are here to bring your family to Coruscant. To safety.”

“Straight into the den of the lion—oh, oops, I mean _dragon_ ,” Arya grumbled. “ _That_ sounds like a safe destination.”

“You have my word that you won’t be harmed.”

“Your _word_?” Robb sat up straighter, looking Jon in the eyes. “What is that to us? We’d never go with you.”

“Don’t you want to see your father?” Joffrey asked, grinning as he turned his lightsaber over in his hands. He marched toward Sansa and her grip on the lightsaber tightened. “Sansa, sweetling, don’t you want to come home with me to Coruscant? You always said you did.”

She forgot she was supposed to pretend to be strong. She took a step back.

The simple show of weakness just made Joffrey’s smile widen. He reached out for her, grabbing her wrist and taking the hilt of her lightsaber in his other hand. “Don’t be so stupid, Sansa—”

“Don’t touch her!” Robb shouted.

“Let me _go_!” she cried, trying to wrench out of Joffrey’s grip.

He held her tight, his foul breath hot on her face, his eyes leering at her. “Come with us or I’ll do whatever I like with you.” Then he lowered his voice, so that only she could hear. “Oh, wait, I already will.”

“Joffrey,” Jon said, his tone warning. 

But there was something in Joffrey’s eyes that she had seen many times before. He wouldn’t be stopped now. His vile imagination had gotten the better of him, as it always did. Like when he’d burned Tommen’s arm, or when he’d asked her to kiss his blade, or when he’d decided he wanted to _try her out_ before their wedding night.

She kicked at him and he yelped, shoving her. She fell onto her back in the snow, jolting her neck.

“You _kicked_ me.” His eyes had changed. Now, he looked murderous.

This was it. She was going to die. There was no way Joffrey could have that look and spare any life—not even hers, the girl he’d once said he loved.

He lifted his lightsaber and a breath left her lips. “Joffrey!” someone yelled.

Then, there was a flash of gray—a snarl—a lightsaber hum—a whine.

Sansa sat, blinking, trying to catch her breath, trying to understand what had just happened.

“Lady?” 

Her voice sounded far away, like it was someone else’s.

Lady lay on the ground just inches from Sansa. She didn’t move. Sansa crawled over to her on her knees, pressing her hands against her sweet-smelling fur, trying to find where the violet blade had harmed her. She was fine, wasn’t she, even though she wasn’t moving? There was no blood, no hurt, there couldn’t be. But she wasn’t _moving_.

Sansa curled herself around Lady’s head, pulling off her gloves and pressing her fingers against Lady’s soft coat even as the cold pierced her skin. “Lady, get up, please,” she said, with increasing alarm. The wolf let out a huff of air, less a whine than a tired breath, and then her muscles went limp and there was no more life in her golden eyes. “Lady,” Sansa said, louder this time.

“She’s dead, you stupid girl,” Joffrey said. 

“That’s _enough_ , Joffrey.” Somehow, she registered that it was Jon who had said that, but she didn’t know why. He was with Joffrey. He was just as cruel.

“What? You should be thanking me for killing the beast,” Joffrey said.

No. That couldn’t be it. Lady couldn’t be dead. Not Lady.

But her golden eyes were staring, and so empty. 

And that was the only thing that could explain the emptiness that Sansa felt. Ever since she met Lady, everything had started to make sense. She’d been _happier_. She’d been stronger, both with her body and the Force. Her father had always said that the Starks made powerful bonds with animals that could enhance their gifts. It was a nice idea, but Sansa never really believed it. But now—with Lady’s loss aching the very core of the place where Sansa’s Force lived—she did. She believed it so fiercely that she closed her eyes, embracing the cold, wanting nothing more than sleep, to have the snow cover her along with her direwolf.

Sansa’s lightsaber lay on the ground. Lady lay on the ground. It would be so easy for her to do so, too.

But there were the others. Her siblings. She had already forgotten their names, she thought, but now they came back into her head. Robb and Arya. Robb was shouting for her, and she could hear Arya’s little sobs. If she went to sleep, they might, too, or they might die fighting, at the hands of Joffrey. Like Lady had.

She wouldn’t let Joffrey take anything else from her.

She kissed the soft fur behind Lady’s ear and tugged her gloves back on, rubbing the blood back into them. Robb and Arya’s faces were stricken, tears pooling in Arya’s goggles. They couldn’t know what this felt like, not really, but they could understand more than anyone else. Sansa lifted her lightsaber from the ground and it thrummed back to life. She looked at Joffrey and trained her face to be calm. He’d always liked to upset her, but she wouldn’t give that to him now.

The Force wasn’t gone after all. She could feel it; empty, maybe, but so close. She locked eyes with Joffrey and said, “You want to hurt yourself.”

He’d already had a satisfied smirk on his face, the expression he always got when he’d taken a life, and now he laughed. “What?” he asked. “What nonsense are you—“

She threw everything into it. “You want to hurt yourself.”

His eyes glazed over.

She smiled. “You want to test how close you can get your lightsaber to your arm, just like we used to do with Tommen, remember?”

Joffrey lifted his lightsaber and brought it close to his arm.

“Joff, what the—” Jon lurched forward, but held himself in place, still pointing blades at Robb and Arya. If he moved, they’d be on their feet before he could turn around. “Someone get out here, now,” he shouted into the mouth of the ship.

Joffrey’s arm was starting to smoke. Over the scent of snow, Sansa smelled burning meat. “Closer,” she said. “You can get it closer.”

He pressed it deeper into his arm and yelped from the pain. He pulled it away, but Sansa quickly said, “Try again, Joff, you want to try again _so_ badly, I know you do.”

“Joffrey, don’t listen to her, this is just a trick!” Jon called.

“That’s it,” Sansa said as Joffrey’s blade neared his arm again. “Now, you want to try cutting it. You always wanted to cut Tommen’s arm, didn’t you? How much force would it take to cut it—cut it right off?” The words sent a thrill through her. “You want to try it now, just a quick cut, see if you’re strong enough. You want to be strong enough, you really do…” 

With the flash of his violet blade, Joffrey sliced deep into his own arm.

He stumbled backward in the snow, shrieking, the pain clearing his head of Sansa’s manipulating. “You bitch!” he screamed.

She just smiled at him. He stood, wavering on his feet, and charged at her. She blocked his one-handed swing easily, and their sabers rang together. Joffrey swung again and again, but she parried him every time. In the corner of her vision, she saw a gleam of gold, but she couldn’t look. She had to keep her focus or she’d be lost. Joffrey was injured, but she still dueled like a child. “I should have killed you when I had the chance!” Joffrey said. 

“Joffrey,” Jon’s voice boomed, but Joffrey just spat into Sansa’s face.

Shocked, she almost flinched. She was thankful for the goggles now. How could she ever have once thought he was kind or gentle? “I should have killed _you_ ,” she said, unable to stop herself, something of Arya’s wildness awakening inside her. “But I didn’t. I waited until now.” And she leapt at him, swinging so hard that she shoved him back and he stumbled.

At that moment, fear flashed through his eyes, and she felt like she was one of the Seven.

But Joffrey’s fear was soon replaced by rage. Hacking left and right, he advanced on her so fast she couldn’t even brace herself. Sweat pooled on her brow as she tried to keep up with him. Her sense of power was gone. How was he so fast with one hand, that she could barely match him with two? How could he still fight in excruciating pain?

“Morsus!” Jon shouted.

And then, Joffrey grunted and swung his saber with full force. She gasped. Her lightsaber slipped from her gloved hands, landing in the snow. The blue light snuffed out.

Joffrey lifted his saber high in the air with one shaking hand. Behind him, Arya shrieked and Robb yelled for mercy, and Sansa knew they couldn’t protect her now—no one could, not them or poor Lady. “No mercy,” Joffrey shouted, and Sansa shut her eyes as violet light streaked at her face— 

Nothing happened. She opened her eyes to see Joffrey’s eyes wide. He dropped his lightsaber and began to claw at his throat with one hand. His face was reddening, then purpling, and a choking sound gurgled from his mouth.

Sansa looked past him at her siblings. But they were gone—no, they were with Grey Wind and Nymeria, standing on the lowered door of King Renly’s golden transport _Fury_ , hovering in the air beside them. Jon had left her siblings behind, letting them escape. Their lightsabers were no longer in his left hand.

Because his hand was outstretched in Sansa’s direction.

No—in _Joffrey’s_ direction.

“I said that was _enough_.”

He was choking Joffrey.

Sansa didn’t understand it, but right now, there were more important things. Scooping up her saber, she ran for the transport, but as she did, Jon lowered his hand. Sansa could hear Joffrey falling to the ground, gasping for air, as she sprinted to Robb and Arya.

“ _Rhaegal_ ,” Jon shouted.

Fire blasted the side of _Fury_ , nearly knocking the ship onto its side.

“No,” Robb shouted at someone inside the ship. “My sister!”

Sansa ran as fast as she could, but the door was rising and rising. Arya screamed, but hands encircled her little sister, and someone else was holding Robb back. She heard the sounds of wolves, at once furious and mournful. Still, Sansa ran, until the door shut and _Rhaegal_ fired again. She was so close this time that she was blown back, sliding through the snow, clinging to her lightsaber.

_Fury_ was launching into the sky, fleeing the battle. Leaving her behind.

She let out a shaky breath and rose to her feet, her legs aching. Jon stared at _Fury_ as it soared away. He could have easily ordered _Rhaegal_ to shoot it down, or leap inside to follow it, but he didn’t.

“Your brother and sister would have been safer with us on Coruscant,” Jon said, turning back to Sansa.

There was no chance for her. She could do nothing but activate her lightsaber, advance on Jon, and pray for some miracle—as she summoned up all of the Force she had left in her. He watched her, silent, as she edged toward him.

Joffrey coughed over and over again, still on his hands and knees. “You can’t _do_ that! You can’t choke _me_!” he sputtered, his voice deep and hoarse. Sansa and Jon both ignored him.

Up close, Jon was different than the Jon Targaryen she expected. A long, gloomy face; dark curls; full lips; near her height. Almost the exact opposite of tall, golden Joffrey, who she had once thought was the most perfect-looking boy in the world. Still, Jon was handsome enough for her to realize it even now, which only made her thoughts darken more.

Sansa drew a glowing triangle in the air with her blade, the way she’d seen Arya do a hundred times. She braced herself, then lunged at Jon. He blocked her effortlessly, as she’d known he would. Now, their blades locked, she let the Force that had been building up inside her take over.

She looked into Jon’s long-lashed eyes and noticed they were gray, not Targaryen violet. And then she reached into his mind.

_“Bastard!” Aegon snapped. His lightsaber lit the room red._

_Jon stepped backward from his doorway, eyeing his brother with cautious eyes. “What—”_

_“I just spoke with Father,” Aegon said, his voice low with rage._

_“Is Rhaenys—”_

_“Still in a coma, yes, still half-dead.” Aegon slashed his saber through the air. “Father says I should stay on Coruscant instead of meeting Robert Baratheon in battle.”_

_“Egg, put that away,” Jon said, glaring as the blade singed the edge of his real wooden desk._

_Aegon didn’t seem to listen. “You’ll be going in my place, great Force user. Because Father thinks I’m powerless.” He whirled around, inches from Jon. “Everything is so easy for you. You have the Force. You’re a_ dragon rider _. You waste your time with idiotic things but Father doesn’t care, he thinks you’re better than me in every way. If Rhaenys dies…_ I’m _the_ _heir, Jon, not you!”_

_“You’re right,” Jon said, anger coursing through him but his voice flat. “I’m only a bastard.”_

_“I want to fight. I want to destroy Robert Baratheon, like he destroyed my mother.” Aegon nodded, looking around the room, then back at Jon. “And you’re not going. You won’t take this away from me too.”_

_“Egg, we both want the same thing. To avenge Elia and—”_

_“What right do you have to avenge her? She wasn’t your mother!”_

_Jon stared at him, the words echoing around the room._

_When Aegon finally spoke again, his words were flat. “I am your superior, Jon, so you must obey me. I forbid you from flying_ Rhaegal _.”_

_As Jon watched his brother leave the room, his hand curled into a fist._

And then—

_“Embrace it, Jon Targaryen. You must embrace the darkness.”_

_Jon could only see the darkness behind his eyelids. He could feel it in him—the darkness, the rage, the pain, stronger than ever before._

_“They killed your stepmother. They killed your brother. Your sister may never recover.”_

_Jon squeezed his eyes shut even harder._

_“Give into it, fully. You have walked between light and dark for too long. It has been waiting for you, calling out to you. What do you want?”_

_“I want… I want to be able to_ do _something,” Jon managed to say._

_“You want power."_

_He gritted his teeth. “Yes,” he admitted for the first time. It felt powerful, just saying it._

_“Then you only need to open your eyes and take it.”_

_Jon’s eyes flashed open to the lady dressed in red in front of him. She smiled and moved aside, gesturing with her hand to the man who sat kneeling on the ground, his whole body shaking as he looked upon Jon. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “I was only Robert’s squire at—”_

_“Do it, Jon Targaryen. Shut out the light and let the darkness reign.”_

_Jon felt it crackling under his skin, stronger and stronger, like nothing else he’d ever felt. He reached out his hand and red lightning danced from it, and he looked in the rebel squire’s eyes and thought of Aegon._

And then—

_“You are Rhaegar’s only son now, and you will do as I say!”_

_“Don’t make me do this, Grandfather. Please. I have done everything else,_ everything _you’ve asked—”_

She was being pushed from his mind, but she clung onto it as best she could, imagining she was a bird digging in its talons.

_The Emperor said, “Sansa Stark.”_

She was so shocked that she lost focus for an instant, and then she was tumbling out of his mind and—and—

She was in Winterfell.

_Sansa pulled Jeyne along with her, glaring as her friend giggled. This was not a happy time, even though Sansa had sewn a terribly elegant black mourning dress. She knew she looked beautiful in it, and she knew Joffrey would think so, too. “My lord,” she said, then quickly corrected herself: “My_ prince _.”_

_Because he was a prince now. His father Robert was a rebel and an Empress-killer, and his mother Cersei had fled with her children to Coruscant, wanting no part in the rebellion. And now that Robert had finally been executed, Cersei had married the widowed Rhaegar and he’d adopted her children as his own, probably because he only really had one of his own heirs anymore._

_Joffrey was one of his heirs now—an heir to the Empire!—and he was even more handsome than before._

_“My lady,” he said, his eyes wandering over her entire form. Sansa was modest, but she admitted she’d made the bodice a little tighter than usual, knowing that Joffrey would be coming to Alderaan. “You look lovely.”_

_“I wept when I heard about the poor Empress and her children.”_

_Joffrey pressed one hand against her cheek and her heart started racing. Stupid Jeyne giggled again next to her. “Do not cry, my sweet lady,” Joffrey said, and she was sure he was a Jedi knight straight out of a song—well, from before the Jedis were bad. “Now you are betrothed to a prince, and you may be my empress someday.”_

_Arya snickered beside them. When did she get there? “You’ll never be Emperor, stupid,” she said loudly. “You’re only fourth in line, and maybe even fifth if Rhaenys wakes—”_

_“You shut up, scum!”_

And then—

_She screamed. Winterfell was flooded with Stormtroopers. And two were dragging away her father._

_“Father, no!” she cried, running after him. A Stormtrooper grabbed her and held her in one place. No, it wasn’t a Stormtrooper, it was Darth Kane, a Sith Lord loyal to the Lannisters. They called him the Hound. She glared at his ugly face, kicking to get away, but he just held her tighter._

_“Don’t struggle, little bird, it will only make things worse,” said the Hound._

_But things couldn’t get worse. Father was being taken away, and she didn’t know where the rest of her family was, not even Arya, whose room was right beside hers. Were they all dead? Sansa’s vision went black, and all she could hear was screaming, and suddenly the Hound’s grip on her went limp, but she was already gone…_

And then—

No, she would have no more, she wouldn’t let him in her mind like this. She was screaming again, she thought, using all her Force to push him from her mind.

_Tatooine._

She could feel it working, the cold all around her, biting through her furs, and she could almost see the blue and red of the lightsabers. Except that, again, like when Jaime Lannister and the Hound had taken away her father, she was falling away into darkness.

 


	3. Rhaegal

She shouldn’t have been able to do that. To peer inside his mind like he was a mere child. He was Jon Targaryen: The sole living grandson of the Emperor. A powerful Sith Lord and elite general. A _dragon rider_. For an untrained girl to mind probe him was—should be—impossible. 

She’d seen so much. Looted around in his memories and weaknesses. He’d practically felt her running her fingers over all the things that no one should know about him, like they were treasures presented for her delight.

Thank the Seven that she hadn’t seen Ygritte.

Still, of one thing he was certain: the traitor Lady Sansa would pay for this.

She was awake—he could tell. _Rhaegal_ must have sent that knowledge to Jon through the Force link between dragon starship and dragon rider.

As Jon marched down the halls of _Rhaegal_ , Stormtroopers and crew bowed their heads, some nearly leaping out of the way. No one wanted to get in the way of the dragon. Darth Luxa swore that the air grew hotter around him when he was angry.

And right now, he was enraged.

_The battle is over, pup,_ came a weary voice. As always, it seemed to radiate through the entire ship, humming through the walls, floor, air, everything. But Jon knew it came from within, from his connection with _Rhaegal_ , and that he was the only one who could hear the dragon ship’s thunderous voice.

That was a good thing. Jon had argued, begged, and pleaded with _Rhaegal_ to stop calling him “pup”—or at least tell him why he called him that—but the dragon wouldn’t listen. The name made Jon feel small, like he was some Clegane dog.

_This is a different kind of battle_ , Jon shot back through his Force connection. _I won’t be taken advantage of like… like the worthless bastard everyone thinks I am, Rhae._

The dragon huffed out. _You are not worthless, and certainly not for being born what you call a “bastard.” Those human rules are nonsensical. Is it your fault your father strayed from his wife?_

_These things matter to humans._ Jon charged past another Stormtrooper. _No one can see even a hint of the bastard in me, or they’ll start doubting me. I must be as Darth Luxa said. Impenetrable._

_You’re lucky I’m ancient and therefore mature, pup. Or else I’d make a rude joke right now._

His mouth twitched in spite of his dark mood. _Lucky is not how I’d describe myself. Now leave me be, Rhae. I need solitude._ On the last word, Jon stomped into the two-level control room. It was all dark bronze and green, matching the outside of the ship. His aunt Daenerys, the other dragon rider, always met with guests in her ship’s receiving hall, but he rarely ventured into _Rhaegal_ ’s. He felt more comfortable here, with the large windows and ample floor for pacing, not stuck in the heart of the ship on some silly throne.

“Out,” he snapped, and the crew scattered without protest. He didn’t need any of them to pilot _Rhaegal_. Besides, the dragon ship was as good as anchored right now, suspended in space on his orders. Jon’s boots thumped against the stairs as he walked to the bottom level of the room. He barely felt his legs carry him to the massive window, where a desolate, orange planet lay before him.

He would not let the Starks get away. He would not let down his grandfather. Not again.

There were footsteps, heavy and clumsy, followed by light, cautious ones. So much for solitude. “What is it, Sam?” Jon ordered without turning from the window.

“She’s awake,” came a girl’s voice. Gilly. “Lady Stark, that is.”

“Lady _Sansa_ ,” Sam corrected softly.

“Lady Sansa,” Jon repeated, the name sounding strange in his mouth. “Bring her to me.”

Gilly’s hurried footsteps echoed out of the room.

“Jon,” Sam said, so slowly that Jon finally faced him. As Sam made his way down the stairs, his light eyes on the floor, he took a deep breath. “Are you…” Jon knew he was trying to figure out the most diplomatic way of asking the question. “Is this the best time to speak to Lady Sansa? You’re… not yourself.”

“I _am_ myself.” Who else would he be? He did feel strange, as if there was a shadow hanging over him; some kind of creeping presence he couldn’t identify. He must be coming down with something, or exhausted from the battle.

Jon rested his hand on the hilts of the lightsabers he’d taken from the Stark siblings—Robb and Arya, those were their names. He had tried to follow his grandfather’s orders without harming any of the Starks, and that hadn’t worked in his favor. He should have known better: Darth Luxa always said his heart was craven, overly merciful, even capitulating. It couldn’t be trusted.

That was why she’d had to burn it out of him. All of a sudden, the scar on his hand seared with heat, and he almost hissed in pain until he realized it was only a memory. There was _muscle memory_ , people said, but there must be skin memory, too, because Jon felt it in his scars nearly every day.

Sam adjusted the collar of his black uniform like it was a matter of survival. “I only ask, because, well…”

The pain in Jon’s hand ebbed away, but he felt so weary. His legs trembled, and he barely kept from reaching out to steady himself on Sam’s shoulder. “Spit it out,” he said, turning away, trying to keep Sam from seeing his weakness. What was happening to him? Could he really be this weak and sore from the battle? He was no green apprentice. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, centering the Force within him.

“I suppose what I’m saying is that—as your advisor—I advise you not to, well, lose your head. Like… like you did on Hoth.”

“When did I… Are you saying I shouldn’t have choked Joffrey?” Jon’s eyes were still closed, and he couldn’t help but notice that his voice was gruff to his own ears.

Sam must have seen Joffrey’s bruised neck and heard his whining by now. The mewling little lion cub had not yet given up his demands that they return to Coruscant immediately. “Well… Of course I think that. He’s your _brother_ now, Jon.”

Jon’s eyes flew open and he took two steps toward Sam. He could feel the anger rising. “ _Aegon_ was my brother, and I have no others!” he snapped. Sam cringed, and he felt a tiny spark of guilt. No, he wouldn’t pay that any mind. Guilt made him weak. That was what Darth Luxa had told him again and again, whenever the shame of it all ate away at him. “Joffrey was attacking the—attacking Lady Sansa. If I hadn’t stopped him, he would have killed her.”

“So… that means you were _protecting_ her!” Sam said, a bright smile blooming on his face.

Jon’s lip curled and his eyes found the ceiling: he couldn’t stomach looking at Sam any longer. He’d transformed into that young embarrassment of a Tarly again, the boy who’d grown up with Jon on the wrong side of Coruscant in a school where great lords sent their shameful progeny. But while Jon couldn’t stand when Sam reminded him of his younger self, Sam had somehow gotten it into his head that Jon should still act like the meek, scared boy he once was.

Jon couldn’t be that boy again. He wouldn’t go back to that humiliating life as a powerless, unwanted nobody. _Never_.

“I was carrying out my grandfather’s orders, Sam,” Jon said, his voice low.

But Sam nodded, smiling, unconvinced, unaware of the warning in Jon’s voice. And Jon knew he still believed that Jon was someone he wasn’t, that that useless soft boy hadn’t been trained, or beaten, out of Jon on the way to becoming a prince.

Anger and disgust—and a strange, unfamiliar type of fear—suddenly clutched Jon’s chest. He would never be a sniveling bastard again.

And Sam would understand that from now on.

“If it were up to me,” Jon said, his voice rising, “every single one of the traitorous Starks would be dead right now, and by my own hand.”

Sam’s smile vanished. There was silence for a moment, and then Jon realized that Gilly had returned, Lady Sansa at her side.

As it had when he’d first seen her on Hoth, the red of the girl’s hair sent a jolt through Jon: the shock of finding something seemingly lost forever. But she was not Ygritte. That realization felt like losing her all over again.

Lady Sansa’s hair was more auburn than red, anyway. And nothing else about her was like Ygritte; even the fierceness in her was of a different kind. From the entrance one level above Jon, the Stark girl looked down at him, her head high and her eyes cold. Despite wearing an ill-fitting dress meant for a much shorter girl, she appeared… deadly. Imperious.

Gilly had said something, and now everyone was staring at him.

“What? Speak up,” he snapped. Somehow, having Sansa in the room made him more irritable, and from the way her eyes narrowed at him, he thought he might have the same effect on her.

“Lady Sansa, my prince,” Gilly said, curtsying.

Sam was pale as he drew closer, muttering in Jon’s ear. “Try to be _kind_ , Jon, like you once were. Like you still can be. I know you can. I’ve seen it.”

Be kind—to the girl who had threatened his family and the Empire he had sworn to serve, looted through his memories, made him remember a ghost he had long ago banished? Didn’t Sam know that was next to impossible?

Besides, kindness was for peacetime. This was war.

Sam must have read his mind, because he added, “If you’re kind, it will be better for everyone. _Including_ the Emperor.”

Damn him. “Leave us.”

Gilly disappeared from the room and Sam made his way up the flight of stairs. His friend lingered at the edge of the room, glancing between Jon and Sansa, before he left as well.

And then it was just the two of them. A silence fell over the room.

“You may approach,” he finally said, irritated that she was viewing him from higher ground.

As she walked down the stairs, keeping her chin raised, Jon resisted the urge to look away from her. He should not be nervous in this untrained girl’s presence, no matter how icy those blue eyes were.

When she reached him, she did not curtsy, or even lower her head.

“I take it you are not bowing to me because of the headache,” he said. “And so I will not hold it against you.” He stepped closer, taking in her red eyes and pallid face. “Mind probes can be terribly painful afterwards, if you’re unprepared.”

“And I imagine your head doesn’t hurt in the slightest, even though you mind probed me, too,” Sansa said, her voice hoarse.

Actually, it did smart a little bit at his temples, now that he thought about it. It had been a long time since he’d used that ability. Darth Luxa forced him to practice it in training, but Jon never let himself use it in the field, except in self-defense against another probe. Just as he rarely influenced a weak mind with the Force. It was foolish, he knew—the others in his family used those powers all the time—but he didn’t think he’d ever be comfortable with that level of influence over another’s mind.

But evidently Sansa Stark didn’t have the same ethical qualms.

“I’ve got more practice with the Force than you,” Jon growled. “And you didn’t guard against me at all, so it was easy to turn your attack on you and get into your head.”

Sansa took a deep breath, as if she was fighting to maintain her current composure. Or consciousness. Although he couldn’t sympathize with any rebel traitor, especially not this one, he could understand how she felt. The first time Darth Luxa had forced him to mind probe someone, he had slept for a full day, waking up only to heave out the contents of his stomach. But that could have been the shame.

Even now, he was a little queasy.

“It was treason,” he said, “but at least you offered me valuable information.”

She flinched, red springing into her cheeks.

His humiliation, then anger, flared again when he remembered what she had seen in his own memories. He turned back to the window. “Tatooine,” he said, nodding at the orange planet outside.

Her gasp caught in her throat, and satisfaction rushed through him at the sound. That was when he realized—he felt as surprised as she did.

That made no sense. He glared at Tatooine, cursing whatever scummy virus he’d picked up while fighting on Hoth. It was playing tricks on him, or on his Force, making him feel things that weren’t real.

He couldn’t let it affect him in front of her. “I saw this in your thoughts. A strange planet to have on your mind. Why were you thinking of Tatooine, Lady Sansa?”

She pressed her white lips together.

“That’s where your siblings are, aren’t they?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve had that song in my head for ages—you know, the one about the suns of Tatooine.”

“My forces are already prepared for combat. They were trained for the cold, but they can fight just as well in the desert heat. Tell me, Lady Sansa, where on Tatooine are your siblings?”

Sansa’s face was stricken, but she gave away nothing.

“This has been a simple misunderstanding. You Starks may have been traitorous, but we are willing to pardon all your family’s crimes. The Empire needs your siblings alive and well, Lady Sansa.”

“Why?” she demanded. “What could have possibly changed?”

Jon grit his teeth. “In Coruscant, they—you all will be treated like the lords and ladies that you are. You’ll be trained in the Force from the best teachers. Not running from the law and living among rebel scum.”

She folded her hands in front of her, avoiding his gaze.

When she didn’t reply, Jon took a different approach. “I won’t harm them, Lady Sansa. I swear it.”

Sansa didn’t look away from the orange planet in front of them.

Anger flashed through him, and he was surprised by how strong it was, and how focused it was on the feeling of _unfairness_. And he felt afraid, for no reason that he could understand. There was so much fear he felt cold. The fear made him angrier, more desperate.

“I could send my Stormtroopers to scour the entire planet. Or perhaps I’ll mind probe you again and find the answer,” he said. It was an empty threat, but she didn’t know that he hated mental attacks. Terror jumped into her eyes before she could conceal it. “It won’t be difficult to get into your head now that you’ve all but drained your Force.”

“Do it, then,” she said, her voice fierce and her eyes wide, as if she was shocked at her own words. “And I’ll do what you did and turn it around on _you_.”

“You don’t know how to do that.” The rage was growing, still. Why couldn’t he stay calm, level-headed?

“I didn’t know how to mind probe at all until I tried it on you. Go ahead. Maybe I’ll find out more about your family issues, _bastard_.”

His hand shot up without him thinking about it, outstretched toward her long, pale neck. As his grandfather taught him. As they stared at each other, his chest heaved, the Force reaching out but stopping just short of her. He could feel _Rhaegal_ tensing, the air pressure in the ship rising.

It would be easy to do this. He had strangled Joffrey into submission. Why not this traitor? He remembered the day his grandfather had showed him this trick. _Squeeze the defiance out of them. Make them obey. There is so much power in you, boy, even if you are a half-breed bastard._

Jon had shied from it then, yet now, his hand had moved like it was second nature. Maybe he was becoming a true Targaryen after all.

But he couldn’t help but think of his grandfather’s bursts of anger. When Jon had asked his grandmother what he could do to help her bruises and cuts, she collapsed in his arms and told him never to lay a hand on a lady.

Grief and guilt and a tumble of other forbidden feelings washed over him, and he lowered his hand, glad his grandfather was not around to see the weakness in his eyes.

_Rhaegal_ relaxed.

“Understand this,” Jon said, coming closer to her, his hands trembling. He wanted her to take a step back, but she didn’t, even when he was only inches from her. She held her ground and glared back at him with her bloodshot eyes, her breath cool on his lips. “I am an Imperial prince. I have the blood of the dragon. Had anyone else mind probed me, they would already be dead. 

“Then why am I still alive.” More a demand than a question.

Just as Jon could feel the ship rumbling with electricity and heat when he was angry, he now felt it go silent. He watched her for too long—that pretty face, those eyes that saw too much, that damned red hair—before he pulled away, back to the window, back to Tatooine.

“Why was the Emperor saying my name in the memory I saw?” Sansa asked. 

Jon’s jaw tightened.

“Why _were_ these your orders?” Sansa stepped to his side and he forced himself to look at her, to not appear weak, to not appear as if she was taking this whole conversation and twisting it her way. “Why would the Empire suddenly decide my family and I needed to be in Coruscant now, after they had us leave Alderaan a year ago?” 

“Because,” he said, stiffening his shoulders as if he was preparing for battle.

This was a battle, like he’d told _Rhaegal_.

And he was about to destroy her.

“One of our informants told us that you and your siblings were Force-sensitive after all. Then…”

“What?” she asked, her voice breathy.

“Then, new marriage plans were made.” 

She was already pale, ashen, but Jon swore he could see the blood leaving her cheeks, or maybe he felt it in his own. She searched his eyes, and another misguided wave of guilt rolled over him.

He felt the anticipation, too, like he was going to learn something he desperately needed to know. It didn’t make any sense—neither did the fear behind the anger, or the _extent_ of the anger, the feeling of something being unjust—but he couldn’t dwell on that.

He’d better get it over with quickly. For both their sakes.

“Robb will marry my aunt Daenerys. Arya will marry my uncle Viserys.”

Sansa pressed her lips together, her eyes widening.

Jon continued. “Brandon will marry my—my new stepsister, Myrcella. A suitable match will be made for Rickon later. And you…”

“No. Not Joffrey,” Sansa snapped. “I won’t do it.”

“No,” Jon said, his voice quiet. “Joffrey has already declared his engagement to Margaery Tyrell. Besides… you marrying him would be foolish now.”

As the anger fell from her face, he felt its red-hot presence leave him, too. Something was occurring to him about the way his emotions seemed to mirror her reactions, but he couldn’t think clearly right now, not with Sansa watching him like this.

“You are the eldest, Force-sensitive daughter of the most powerful family in the galaxy—besides the Targaryens, of course,” Jon added. “Joffrey is only fifth in line to the Empire, and he has no Targaryen blood.”

Understanding washed over her, and Sansa let out a shuddering breath.

He nodded, almost wincing, as he said, “You and I are to marry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Thanks to everyone who has commented, even if I haven't been able to get back to you all!! I'm sorry this took so long to update. If you follow me on Tumblr, you may know that I had a death in the family and I was helping take care of things across the country for 4+ months. I also just lost my inspiration/motivation to write and I wasn't able to bring myself to do it for a long time.
> 
> I was finally able to write thanks to the help of NaNoWriMo! ...but then I saw the new Star Wars and got freaked out that parts of this fic are too much like Reylo. haha. Today I decided I don't actually care—I don't want to change my vision for the story just because Sith!Jon also happens to be a brainwashed, broody, conflicted prince of darkness like Kylo lol. I admit they seem similar in this fic, but I hope that you'll be able to see the differences between Kylo and Jon.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this!! The next chapter is already pretty much done so I'll be updating more regularly again. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I know, no Jon in Chapter 1. I'm sad too. He'll be here soon enough!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! :D


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